<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>4:52 by Terrantalen</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25174420">4:52</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrantalen/pseuds/Terrantalen'>Terrantalen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Passenger [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blue Song - Mint Royale (Music Video)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Fingering, Car Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Terminal Illness, That's Slowly Transitioning to Angst, Unsafe Sex, fuck the space time continuum</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:20:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,475</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25174420</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrantalen/pseuds/Terrantalen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The second part in what is going to probably be a multi-part  P <i>mostly</i> WP Odyssey, featuring an angst sidecar!</p><p>Still, basically an excuse to get characters who look like Noel Fielding and Julian Barratt to do sexy things with one another in, on, and around a Ford Granada. 🤷</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Julian Barratt/Noel Fielding, The Kid/The Stooge</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Passenger [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823737</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>4:52</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lovell’s eyes are closed. He’s got his boots propped up on the surface of the tiny cubicle desk that doesn’t belong to him. It’s one of the empty ones. Most of them are empty. </p><p>He’s got his headphones in, listening to the Stones while he waits.</p><p>
  <i>I tell you I am just a fellow with a one-track mind<br/>
Whatever it is I want, baby, I seek and I shall find<br/>
I'll tell you</i>
</p><p>He’s remembering while he taps along to the song with his fingers on his thigh.</p><p>Foxey tense, then eager, spread (and he does <i>spread</i>; his long limbs stretch out, his legs like taffy, his arms like bubble gum, everything reaching out and out and out) over the bonnet of the Granada, his whole body one loose pool of warm Nutella, perfect and willing, just fucking glorious.</p><p>Lovell thinks about his eyes, his guilty chocolate button eyes, that dart about everywhere around him until he loses himself, in Lovell.</p><p>He always melts at first, but when he’s <i>close</i>, he retracts. His hands get stupid and start pulling Lovell’s hips, or gripping the back of his shirt; his legs coil up and wrap around Lovell’s back. Foxey doesn’t want anything until he wants everything, and he trusts Lovell to give it to him.</p><p><i>Her love is ecstasy<br/>
When her arms enfold me<br/>
I hear her tender rhapsody<br/>
But in reality, she doesn't even know</i><br/>
Just my imagination<i> me</i></p><p>“Hewitt!”</p><p>Mr. Hulse’s voice snaps Lovell out of his reverie.</p><p>Lovell pulls his headphones off his ears and sits up. The receptionist catches his eye and they share a look. Janine, her name is, Lovell thinks. He’s not sure. They’ve not talked much, and she’s new, but if she’s already giving Lovell <i>that look</i>, she’s probably not going to last here long. A lot of people don’t.</p><p>He goes round the side of the cubicle and sees his boss standing in the door to his tiny office. He’s braced himself on one arm, his large belly slung forward and down, as though it’s pulling him toward the floor. His bald head shines with sweat even through the aircon is cranked high enough for a meat locker. </p><p>Mr. Hulse has the sort of face that’s perpetually sour. It’s sour now. His eyes widen at Lovell, “Hurry up, Hewitt! Christ, ain’t got all day. Get in here and sit down.”</p><p>Lovell does not hurry up. Janine snickers behind her hand.</p><p>When Lovell gets into Mr. Hulse’s office, he’s already sat behind his desk. He gestures impatiently at the chair across from him and tells Lovell to take a seat. He slides a stack of papers around in front of him.</p><p>They’re the subscriptions Lovell has sold over the past week. He can recognize his own signature at the bottom of the forms, the sloppy, slapdash mark that’s more drawing that script, next to the pin-neat printed version. He’s taken great pains over the letters that form his name.</p><p>Mr. Hulse takes the top one off the stack and examines it. He sighs, “Listen, Hewitt, I didn’t want to have to have this conversation again, but I just can’t let this slide.”</p><p>“What d’you mean?”</p><p>“Look at this,” Mr. Hulse says. He takes the paper he’s holding and lays it flat on the desk. He points to the bottom of the form, where all the checkboxes are. That’s the bit that Lovell needs to fill out himself, the subscription plan selection part. Lovell has put an ‘X’ next to the five-year auto-renewal.</p><p>“Alright?” Lovell asks without comprehension.</p><p>Mr. Hulse mugs at Lovell a bit. “Well, what the fuck?” he asks once he decides looking like a constipated frog isn’t getting his point across.</p><p>Lovell shrugs. “Signed up for the five-year plan, didn’t they?”</p><p>“Yes, lad, he did, but you checked off the year-long without auto-renewal.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Look!” Mr. Hulse stabs his finger down onto the paper, “Look! See? Right here!”</p><p>Lovell looks down at the paper. The tiny red letters swim in front of his eyes. “No, you—”</p><p>“What <i>no?</i> Fucking <i>read it</i>. Jesus.”</p><p>Lovell is sure, sure that he can’t have made the same mistake again. Not after last time. And then, he thinks, and is sure, absolutely certain, that the last time they had this conversation, Mr. Hulse had said that the box for the five-year was the one all the way to the right, the one that Lovell has checked. Lovell looks up from the paper, “You <i>said</i>—”</p><p>Mr. Hulse’s eyes bulge practically out of his skull, like he can’t believe Lovell’s obstinance. He probably can’t. “Read it,” he repeats, the words sharp and clipped.</p><p>Lovell bites the inside of his lip. He pulls the paper toward himself and then looks down at it. The ease he felt out on the office floor is gone. The residual swagger he got off Jagger is gone. All that’s left is him and the little red letters that just don’t like to behave. He stares at them.</p><p>“What does it say?”</p><p>“It...” Lovell has no idea what the fuck it says. He can get by, most of the time, but something about these particular letters, plus the way he’s being stared at by Mr. Hulse, plus the fact that he really can’t fuck this up is all combining. He can’t make sense of it. He closes his eyes and opens them again. “It says—”</p><p>“It says,” Mr. Hulse interjects, “Auto-renewal <i>five-year</i>—”</p><p>“Non-exempt, optional buy-in,” Lovell recites, “for an additional—"</p><p>“Too fucking right it does,” Mr. Hulse says, slamming his fist on the desk.</p><p>Lovell drops the paper like it’s burned him. It flutters down on the desk and settles.</p><p>Mr. Hulse leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his belly. He looks at Lovell with an expression that Lovell knows well. <i>Thick. Idiot. Moron. Slow.</i> The other man doesn’t need to say the words for Lovell to hear them.</p><p>Mr. Hulse sighs wearily. Lovell has heard sighs just like it more times than he can count. Teachers, mates, waitresses; kick him on down the line and keep going. Lovell tucks his chin into his chest and looks down at the floor. It needs hoovering. It’s covered in flakes of shredded paper and bits of sand.</p><p>Mr. Hulse’s chair creaks as he shifts forward. “Look, kid,” he says gently, “you’re a good salesman, but that’s no good to me if I have to fix your orders every time they come back. If I have to call up and confirm them all, that’s a waste of my time. I’m sorry, Hewitt, but I’m docking your commissions.”</p><p>Lovell wants to kick off, but he doesn’t. He can’t believe that he’s fucked it up again. He doesn’t (as in never) forgets that sort of thing, and he’s sure that Mr. Hulse said last time... but it doesn’t matter what was said last time. Because Lovell needs this. He needs the job. He swallows his objections and nods.</p><p>“Sorry, son,” Mr. Hulse says. “You’ll make it up.”</p><p> </p><p>Battersea is a bit nicer than where Lovell usually sells. It’s a little too nice to get a whole lot of interest. MP3 players are making their way into neighborhoods like this. CDs, like tapes, and records before them, are living on borrowed time.</p><p>Too bad, really. Lovell has always liked a nice CD. He likes the shiny backs and the colors on the fronts. He likes taking them out of his book and giving them a spin around his index finger before popping them into the CD player. He likes counting the number of times to press skip before he gets to his favorite track. The only problem with them is that they’re well delicate.</p><p>For durability, you’ve got to go with cassettes. Can’t break a tape. You can drop it, toss it about, even step on it—well you don’t want to mash it under your shoe, sure—but  a little accidental kick with a boot can’t harm a cassette; point is, unless you’re deliberately trying to wreck a tape, you’re not going to.</p><p>For style, of course, you’ve got to go with records. The smell of old vinyl, the feel of it under your fingers (it’s always warm, somehow, almost alive), the massive album covers with their art that makes it impossible to make a mistake about which album it is you’ve got in your hands—vinyl is the best. Except you can’t play it in the car. That’s the drawback of it.</p><p>He’s not sure what the advantage of MP3’s is. Nothing to look at, nothing to hold. No pictures. Lovell loves pictures. Pictures always make sense, always look right. It’s all words on MP3 players.</p><p>He looks over at the traitorous stack of forms next to him on the passenger seat. He’s made a few sales today. Signed up more than one person for the five-year, gold standard subscription plan. Those are the money makers. The longevity in a five-year contract is what they’re hunting for. Lovell sells more five-years than anyone.</p><p>He doesn’t actually know that’s true, but he’s pretty sure it is. The first time Mr. Hulse called him in to talk about his paperwork was to tell him he must be making a mistake, coming back with so many five-year subscriptions. Lovell wasn’t.</p><p>He’s always been good with people. Girls especially. He likes talking music, likes meeting new people, he likes driving the Granada through London, and going out to the county, and coming back to the city. Some people, Lovell knows, hate driving. He’s traded routes more than once with the other sales reps when they get sent far out of the city. It’s no big deal, he always says. He doesn’t mind a drive.</p><p>He never has.</p><p>Roads etch themselves into Lovell’s memory indelibly. He never forgets how to get somewhere when he’s been there once. Every twist and turn, every curve and light goes straight into his brainbox and never comes out. He’s always had a good memory.</p><p>Good is an understatement. Usually, it’s great.</p><p>Usually.</p><p>He runs his hand through his hair and flips the forms around so he doesn’t have to look at them. Everything was fine before they revised them.</p><p>When Lovell had started as a trainee, he’d been sent out with a girl named Chelsea. She’d walked him through the form for their first dozen sales together. She read the disclaimer they’ve got to do at the end of each of sale and Lovell had it word perfect by the fifth run-through.</p><p>Then, the forms had been changed, and, ever since, Lovell has been fucking them up. He would swear, though, absolutely swear, that Mr. Hulse had said last time—It doesn’t matter.</p><p>Lovell has bluffed his way into an honest job. The perfect job, really, except the pay is shit when his commission keeps getting docked. It’s not enough. He’ll need another job from Stan soon, and that thought fills him with a sour feeling.</p><p>There isn’t that much demand for a getaway driver. Usually, it’s drugs. Shifting them from one side of the country to the other. The work makes him feel a little uneasy. His uncle overdosed on heroin when Lovell was ten, a junkie that got clean and relapsed more times than could possibly be counted, in and out of jail like a jack-in-the-box, his habit a thing that wound and wound until it sprang and landed him back in trouble. And then killed him.</p><p>Plenty of people, though, use and don’t die. Hash, mushrooms, LSD, coke; that sort of shit, doesn’t seem any worse than alcohol or cigarettes. People die from alcohol and cigarettes all the fucking time.</p><p>Whatever. If he’s got to drive drugs into Manchester or up to Liverpool or whatever the fuck, he doesn’t really care. He might not love it, but what people do to themselves isn’t his problem.</p><p>It’s not.</p><p>He thinks of his Foxey again and shoves the thought aside. He’s not on anything. Lovell’s pretty sure. There aren’t any weird bruises or bloody noses or anything that—and then he stops himself. He isn’t <i>Lovell’s</i> Foxey. He doesn’t belong to him, no matter how much it feels like he does whenever they go somewhere together.</p><p>Lovell can’t have him.</p><p>That’s why he picked him, after all.</p><p> </p><p><br/>
The day of the job, Lovell had been keyed up. He had left the house like he was going to work just like normal. Stan had given him the address for the pick up, for the drop off, and for the station the gang wanted to be brought to after, but Lovell wasn’t worried about anything beyond the first part.</p><p>He was worried about the men he was picking up. Stan had said they were professionals, not at all like the clowns Lovell had driven for two years earlier who’d barely had their shit together enough to afford Lovell’s fee at the end. Those idiots hadn’t done their research and robbed the bank on a day when there’d been almost no cash on hand. These guys, Stan said, were different.</p><p>Stan didn’t know for sure (Stan never knew for sure; he was the type to carefully hedge what color the sky was even when he was looking straight at it) but he had heard that these were the guys behind the robberies up north. He’d listed six high-take robberies that Lovell had heard of in the news, all of them unsolved. They switched up their MO every time, or so Stan had <i>heard</i>, so that they weren’t traceable. Smart guys. Good at what they did.</p><p>They wanted the best getaway driver they could get, and Stan had thought of Lovell.</p><p>Lovell wasn’t sure that he was the best, but he could drive, and he needed money. Six-thousand quid was more than he’d make at his real job in five months, and that was if they were <i>good</i> months. So, yeah, he was interested, but he also could not risk ending up in jail.</p><p>Except that he took that risk, had been taking that risk, nearly weekly for the past four years. The drug running. There had been some close calls with that. A couple close calls too, back when he hot-wired cars and stole sound systems out of them. One call that wasn’t just close.</p><p>He’d been younger then; younger and a lot dumber. Well, maybe not <i>a lot</i> dumber, but still. He’d learned the value of caution since then. It wasn’t just joy-riding and stealing speakers for some extra money on the weekends anymore. He had responsibilities.</p><p>So, when he pulled into the carpark, he’d told himself that, if he didn’t like what he saw, he’d just roll the Granada right on through and back out onto the road, and if Stan kicked off about it... well. </p><p>There it was.</p><p>Upset Stan, no more jobs, no more jobs, no more extra money. Then what?</p><p>He was in for a penny already. There was no more choosing after the moment he’d said yes.</p><p>If he didn’t like what he saw, he’d bloody well lump it.</p><p>The three of them were standing together. Trenches, briefcases, white trainers. All of them in specs. They looked a bit like a shit indie outfit, all matching like they did. Lovell supposed that it was like zebras. All the same, the stripes, or whatever. It was meant to make it difficult to single out any one of them individually. Attenborough had gone on about it in some documentary or other. Lovell didn’t know how well it worked for the gang, though. If the point was to keep any of them from getting singled out, it didn’t work in the slightest.</p><p>One of them, Lovell picked out straight away.</p><p>It was probably the cigarette. He rolled it between his fingers as he brought it to his lips and pulled on it. A life-long smoker, Lovell thought. His curly mop of hair stirred in the wind and he tipped his head back so that it fell out of his face. He blew the smoke up into the air, lips pursed. Tall and long, that one. Tall and long, and still. Like a fox on the make.</p><p>The one that Lovell identified a split second later as the boss stepped forward before the car had even stopped. He snapped his fingers to get the attention of the other two. The heavy-set one looked toward the car, his face set in a frown, his shoulders shrugging like a batter on strike. The tall one, though; he looked right at his boss.</p><p>They exchanged some words that Lovell couldn’t hear, then, as a unit, they started walking toward the Granada.</p><p>Lovell rolled down the passenger side window, “No fucking smoking in the car.”</p><p>The boss looked back at Mr. Fox, “Put that shit out,”</p><p>The cigarette dropped quick as you like, stomped under Mr. Fox’s trainer a second later. He pushed his hand through his curls and he walked around to Lovell’s side of the car. Lovell watched him in the rearview and then in the sideview. He took in his long fingers, looked at where his narrow wrists were swallowed by too large cuffs, as he reached for the door handle. Mr. Fox settled in behind Lovell and leaned back against the seat.</p><p>The boss took the passenger seat, the third one, the one Lovell began to think of as the muscle sat behind him. Mr. Fox, Lovell decided, was the brains.</p><p>The boss was all business. As soon as the doors were shut and they started driving, he went over their plan again, laid out who was supposed to do what. Then he turned it over to Mr. Fox. He, it seemed, knew the layout. He told them where everything would be, explained what they could expect in his cool, northern voice that held no edge, just smooth vowels, rounded out like marbles.</p><p>Then, it was time and Lovell didn’t have the luxury of paying attention to anything but the music and the road.</p><p> </p><p><br/>
Lovell finishes up in Battersea. It’s been a decent enough day. He’s done alright. Not great, but not bad. Not enough to make anything up. Inevitably, he’ll find himself on the road this weekend with a mouthful of excuses for why, and a head empty of thoughts about what, exactly, he’s got in the boot.</p><p>Normally, Lovell would go home after work, have a shower and something to eat, but, tonight, he doesn’t. He’s got a date with Foxey and he’s restless for it. He needs to clear his head, to get it on straight. Instead of going home, Lovell drives.</p><p>He puts the radio on for a bit, lets random chance dictate what he’s listening to. He stops for petrol, sorts himself a crap sandwich from the service station, and then parks for a bit during the worst of the rush hour traffic.</p><p>His mobile buzzes a couple of times, but it’s nothing important. He turns it off and puts it away in the glovebox, along with his folded-up sales forms from off the passenger seat.</p><p>It’s just starting to get dark when Lovell starts the car again and drives to the record shop.</p><p>He’s a little early when he pulls up, but Foxey must have been even earlier. He’s inside, flipping through the records, back at the end. The Z section. It makes Lovell smile. Foxey’s been working his way through all of Zappa, lately. Picking up all the albums he can get.</p><p>Lovell wishes he knew for certain which ones Foxey’s already bought himself. He wants to make him another present, wants to give him something else that will keep Lovell in his thoughts when he’s not around. Something to remember him for when all of this comes apart.</p><p><i>All of what, exactly?</i> he wonders. Not a whole lot to it, really. Pick him up, take him somewhere, fuck him. Not exactly champagne and roses, is it? That’s the point, obviously. That’s exactly the point.</p><p>Lovell tips his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. He’s not sure yet, where they’re going. He’s got a dozen places he’d like to go, a dozen more after that, too. He wonders what Foxey needs. He usually thinks about what Foxey needs. It’s not that much different, usually, from what Lovell needs himself.</p><p>They’re like a picture ripped in two. Half and half. Two pieces that make up a whole puzzle. Opposite ends. Foxey needs to lose control. Lovell needs to have it given to him.</p><p>Lovell hears the passenger door open. He smells the scent of cigarette smoke, the sweeter scent of Foxey’s deodorant underneath that. Lovell turns toward him.</p><p>Foxey’s got a plastic bag with a couple of records in it that he tucks between his shins on the floor. He gives Lovell a sort of shy smile.</p><p>“What you got?” Lovell asks, with a nod toward the bag.</p><p>Foxey shrugs, “Nothing much.”</p><p>Lovell thinks that’s all he’s going to get. Foxey doesn’t say a whole lot, usually, so it’s no big surprise, but Lovell likes listening to him talk, when he can get him to. He likes the sound of Foxey’s voice. Music is the only thing he’s found that can draw him out. Foxey knows an awful lot about it.</p><p>Jazz comes up quite a bit. He loves a bunch of niche rock groups Lovell has barely heard of, and then some proper prog-rock bullshit that Lovell wants to tease him over, but never does. He likes a bit of everything, does his Foxey. Lovell is the same way, except music for him starts and ends with vocalists. He likes guitarists, too, loves all of it, really, but if his face was being held over a grill and he was forced to name his favorite instrument, well, there is nothing like the human voice. Louis Armstrong, Jagger, Janis Joplin, Freddie Mercury, Screamin’ Jay Hawkins, Nina Simone, Lou Gramm, fuck, even Pavarotti; vocalists are Lovell’s cuppa. </p><p>He thinks about trying to say something in that direction, to tempt Foxey out, but it’s not necessary.</p><p>Foxey fiddles with the handles on the plastic bag, then clears his throat, “Found a new copy of <i>Freak Out!</i> that wasn’t there Friday.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Lovell prompts as he puts the car into first.</p><p>“Yeah,” Foxey repeats. Then he goes.</p><p>He talks about Zappa’s head for mixing rock with jazz, about the insanity of <i>G-Spot Tornado</i>, tells Lovell a hundred things that Lovell has heard in the music without knowing what they were called. Foxey knows the names of them all. Lovell wonders if Foxey plays anything. Seems like he must do. Lovell wants to ask but doesn’t. He wants to know so many things that he isn’t ever going to find out.</p><p>There are boundaries that Lovell won’t cross. The record shop is bad enough. It’s a clue, a link, a suggestion of something. Foxey lives nearby. Lovell knows he does. It’s already too much, just that little bit of unnecessary educated guessing that’s been confirmed by Foxey’s consent to be picked up and dropped off there after every one of their nights together. Lovell doesn’t deserve any more than that, particularly when he’s got no intention of giving up anything of his own.</p><p>They’re going South while Foxey prattles on. It’s good, this. Easy. Comfortable. He’s not thought of the shit parts of his day since Foxey got into the car with him. He still doesn’t know where they’re going, but he wants a long drive. He wants to have Foxey ramble at him as long as he can get him to.</p><p>That’s not the point, he reminds himself. It’s not supposed to be comfortable, or nice. He doesn’t realize that his face has gone hard.</p><p>“I can’t believe I never heard a Zappa record before you...” Foxey trails off. He’s peeking at Lovell like he’s worried he might catch hell for it and Lovell feels it, the way his lips are pressed tight, the way his shoulders have tensed up, how he’s holding the wheel too tight.</p><p>He should keep his mouth shut, he shouldn’t say anything that will get Foxey to keep going. He should just pull off to the side and fuck him right there on the road then leave him to walk home, something properly dickish that would ensure an end—but he can’t.</p><p>“I can’t believe it either,” he says. He looks over at Foxey and smiles, “I knew you’d like him.”</p><p>Foxey relaxes. “How’d you know?”</p><p>Now it’s Lovell who peeks at him, “Magic,” he says. “Could tell straight off you were a man of wealth and taste.”</p><p>Foxey shakes his head a little, “Tit,” he says, softly. There’s a pleased smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. </p><p>It’s so easy, Lovell can’t understand how it’s so easy. He tries to focus on the road, but his eyes slide sideways again. Foxey’s specs flash in the light from a streetlamp and Lovell can see he’s still smiling.</p><p>He suddenly knows where they’re going.</p><p> </p><p>The airfield is surrounded by a tall chain-link fence with razor wire atop it. The mechanical gate at the end of the road is chained and padlocked, but Lovell knows from experience that the cameras on the guardhouse are dark. The keypad isn’t wired anymore either. All that’s between Lovell and a few square miles of open tarmac is the chain and lock.</p><p>He stops the Granada about five feet from the gate. The headlights are the only lights, possibly for miles. They fade away into the dark beyond the gate. Foxey leans forward and looks up. “Where are we?”</p><p>“Airfield,” Lovell says. “Closed down about ten years ago.”</p><p>“Oh,” he says. His eyes slide toward Lovell. He’s not sure about this. He never is when they first get where they’re going. He’ll come round, though. Lovell’s pretty sure he will.</p><p>“Stay here,” he says, getting out of the car. He goes to the boot and pops it open. The bolt cutters are nested in the rim of the spare tire. Lovell takes them and walks around the front of the car. He cuts through the padlock like it’s made of butter. He unwinds the loops of chain and then puts both his hands on the gate and shoves. His boots slip on the tarmac as he puts all his weight into the shove and he wishes, momentarily, that he’d worn trainers or something with proper soles, but the wish is gone as soon as the gate starts moving. Its own inertia carries it once Lovell’s got it going.</p><p>Lovell collects the bolt cutters off the ground then takes them back to the boot and slams it closed. He gets back into the driver’s seat and looks over at Foxey. He’s watching Lovell with more interest than wariness now. Lovell puts the Granada into gear and rolls it slowly forward past the guardhouse.</p><p>Above them, the sky is cloudy. It’s a starless, endless night that surrounds them. Dark countryside disappears behind the heavy cloak of black trees that surrounds the airfield. The headlights cut back a good thirty feet of darkness and show empty tarmac, but beyond that, it looks utterly black. Like there’s nothing.</p><p>Lovell remembers the airfield. Remembers every inch of it. It was his first driving school. Not for piloting the Granada along the streets like a good boy should, but for driving it like the devil was after him with a sock full of razors. He’s got a lot of fond memories of the airfield.</p><p>He rolls up the windows and the blare of crickets quiets. Foxey might be a bit confused by this. He knows the MO, by now. Usually, the windows are wide open so they’ve got a soundtrack going while they fuck. Tonight, that’s part two. Tonight, Lovell’s got something he wants to do first.</p><p>He leans down and takes the book of CD’s out from under his seat. “D’you trust me?” he asks. He unzips the case and starts flipping through the book.</p><p>Foxey doesn’t say anything.</p><p>“Do you?” he asks again. Foxey keeps silent. He watches while Lovell picks out <i>The Razor’s Edge</i> and spins it around his finger.</p><p>Lovell looks over at Foxey as he puts it into the CD player. He can see Foxey’s answer writ out all over his face. <i>Yes</i> and <i>no</i> both together. He’s worried. A little frightened. In a moment, Lovell knows, he’s going to be fucking terrified.</p><p>Lovell was, the first time, and if he was, Foxey will be, but Lovell knows something else, too. Foxey likes being terrified. </p><p>Lovell licks lips, then says, “You shouldn’t.”</p><p>He presses play.</p><p>Immediately, a guitar runs off on a crossing ladder of arpeggios. </p><p>Lovell revs the engine and grins.</p><p>He floors it. The Granada leaps forward like a horse in a calvary charge.</p><p>The factory engine was dropped out of her long ago, replaced with the engine from a luxury jag. Lovell feels himself being pressed back into the seat; he shift-shift-shifts as the car speeds through its gears.</p><p>
  <i>Thunder</i>
</p><p>Next to him, Foxey swears. He grabs onto the doorframe, holds his seatbelt.</p><p>
  <i>Thunder</i>
</p><p>Darkness envelops them on either side, they fly through the uninterrupted night until the headlights smash against walls on either side of them, two empty hangars that zip by and are gone in a blink; then they’re in the empty dark once more.</p><p>
  <i>Thunder</i>
</p><p>Lovell slows, kicks the clutch and pulls the wheel. The back tires fishtail and Lovell lets the car steer itself through the slide that pulls them 90 degrees. They come out of the turn pointed toward the short stretch.</p><p>
  <i>Thunder</i>
</p><p>He takes control of the wheel and floors it again, the car accelerates like a rocket. He hasn’t got any idea how fast the Granada actually goes—the speedometer tops out at an unhelpful 130mph—but it fucking flies. The needle is hard right and rendered meaningless within twenty seconds.</p><p>
  <i>Thunder</i>
</p><p>The engine sounds like a lion, the dark around them is pulled back and reformed too quickly for any sense to be made of the images they see. There is an impression of long grass and smooth tarmac.</p><p>
  <i>Thunder</i>
</p><p>The end of the runway appears out of nowhere. <i>Thunder</i>. </p><p>Another clutch kick, another turn of the wheel. He sets the car with the handbrake and it skids on loose gravel. It’s the same feeling as one of those saucer rides, only Lovell’s in control of this one. They slide around in a perfect U that points them back the way they’ve come. Then it’s accelerate, shift, slide, shift, accelerate. </p><p>
  <i>Thunder</i>
</p><p>They’re in the long stretch now, the full length of the runway to let the car fly. </p><p>It melts off him. Nothing worries him. His responsibilities are gone. His stupid boss with his stupid scowl is dashed to bits. Nothing else exists. There is only the Granada, Lovell, and Mr. Fox. </p><p>Lovell’s heart beats <i>Foxey, Foxey, Foxey</i> and Lovell doesn’t think about why, or if it should. It just does, it just is.</p><p>Poor Foxey. He’s holding onto the edge of his seat, his teeth bared, his eyes wincing almost shut, his heart no doubt pounding a mile a minute, like Lovell’s.</p><p>But what does his heart say?</p><p>
  <i>I was caught, In the middle of a railroad track,</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Thunder</i>
</p><p>Lovell can’t help himself. He slows, doesn’t go for the full length of the runway. Instead, he aims the car back at the twin hangars. They’re flying straight at the side of the closest one, the front end directed like an arrow. Like a whale rising out of the depths, the wall looms out of the dark. Lovell knows precisely when Foxey sees it coming at them. His eyes go huge, his mouth opens like he wants to scream, but no sound comes out.</p><p>
  <i>Sound of the drums<br/>
Beating in my heart<br/>
The thunder of guns<br/>
Tore me apart</i>
</p><p>Lovell cuts the wheel and the Granada spins. He corkscrews it in an ascending spiral that slides them past the hangar with about a foot to spare and then slams the car into reverse, steering with his mirrors through the central aisle. He cuts the wheel, rotates them 90 degrees, then it’s back into forward motion for another sprint toward the large triangle of tarmac where the planes used to be parked. </p><p>
  <i>Went down the highway<br/>
Broke the limit, we hit the town<br/>
Went through to Texas<br/>
Yeah, Texas, and we had some fun</i>
</p><p>Lovell sees the long row of dark lampposts, remembers spinning donuts and figure eights and endless, disorienting braids through them until he could do it with his eyes closed.</p><p>He heads into them, weaves around them, just like old times. They are just at the edge of going too fast. Lovell cuts the wheel and drifts the Granada like the beautiful rear-wheel-drive bitch she is. The tires scream at him—they smoke like they might catch fire—the scent of burned rubber is sharp and acidic and thick.</p><p>When the smoke makes it too difficult to see, Lovell jerks the wheel hard. The car spins in a full circle. It’s just feel now; his own instinct that tells Lovell when they’re pointed in the right direction. He hits the brakes and cuts the headlights.</p><p>“What the fuck!?” Foxey yelps, the light from the dash barely bright enough for Lovell to catch the look on his face, which, basically, is <i>what the fuck</i> projected in face format.</p><p>
  <i>Yeah, it's alright<br/>
We're doing fine<br/>
Yeah, it's alright<br/>
We're doing fine, so fine</i>
</p><p>He presses the clutch, slips the car into gear, puts the pedal all the way to the fucking metal. Lovell can feel the car moving, can feel everything rushing by them; he doesn’t need to see. Seeing is for tits, anyway.</p><p>They are shooting into the void, blind, unknowing, chasing the nothingness ahead of them with reckless haste.</p><p>It’s so fucking good that Lovell laughs.</p><p>He knows when it’s time.</p><p>It comes right in the middle of one of the final <i>thunderstrucks</i>, right at the <i>—nder—</i>, right <i>there</i>, and it’s now.</p><p>He kicks the clutch, pulls the handbrake, cuts the wheel. The car corkscrews, steers itself again as the wheel runs through Lovell’s hands like water, the two of them are in this madness together, and it’s only going to be make or break. </p><p>He could have fucked it up. He could have misjudged the distance or forgot some critical landmark. They could be headed straight for a fucking wall—</p><p>
  <i>You've been</i>
</p><p>—he pumps his brakes, waits for the sound of metal crumpling into metal, but it doesn’t come. The car jerks to a complete stop. He pops the headlights back on.</p><p>
  <i>thunderstruck</i>
</p><p>In front of them is one of the hangars. The other one is behind them. Looks like they’ve got about six feet to spare from the boot to the wall.</p><p>Lovell lets the engine idle and listens to Foxey breathing beside him. He’s panting.</p><p>The CD is about to roll into <i>Fire Your Guns</i>. Lovell presses stop before it does. The CD player makes a series of electric sounding clicks before Lovell hears the whirr of the disc stopping.</p><p>He turns the car off but leaves the lights on.</p><p>He looks over and Foxey is staring at him. His eyes look particularly dark in the half-light from the headlights and the dash.</p><p>Lovell waits for anger. After all, you can’t just do what Lovell has done to Foxey, not without saying what’s going to happen. It’s something that Lovell should have asked permission to do, but he didn’t. Foxey should deck him.</p><p>Instead, Foxey reaches out, his hand wraps around the back of Lovell’s neck and he pulls him into an open-mouthed kiss.  Lovell’s seatbelt digs into his shoulder, the tight line of nylon rasps annoyingly at Lovell’s neck. He unbuckles himself and shrugs out of it. Foxey’s mouth opens for Lovell, all of him opens for Lovell. It’s not enough. </p><p>He shoves his hands into Foxey’s hair; he wants him closer. The hard edge of Foxey’s specs press into Lovell’s cheek and Lovell pulls back from him so that Foxey can grab them and toss them on top of the dash, then they’re together again, still nowhere near close enough.</p><p>The space between them is crowded with the gear stick, with the console, with all sorts of shit that Lovell has no patience for. He reaches down and pops Foxey’s seatbelt then grabs his shirt and starts pulling him over to his side of the car.</p><p>Foxey follows him, his trainers scuff on the floor as he turns himself, and he pushes himself up and over. Lovell holds onto Foxey’s shirt with one hand, reaches down with the other to adjust his own seat so that it’s slid all the way back. Foxey’s long legs can barely fold up enough to get him over to Lovell’s side—it would have been easier, Lovell thinks, for him to have been the one to straddle Foxey—but they manage.</p><p>His knees tuck around Lovell’s hips, his head bumps against the roof of the car. The pressure of his body on Lovell’s rising prick is enough to make Lovell grind against him. He can feel that Foxey isn’t sporting the same sort of semi that Lovell is. He’s already rock hard against Lovell’s stomach. His hands pluck at the fabric around Lovell’s shoulders, like he’s not really sure what to do with them. Foxey is going to go quick.</p><p>Lovell wants him to go quick. Lovell reaches for the other lever that will lower the back of his seat. The seat collapses and they fall down together. Lovell holds Foxey around his back so that he can feel Foxey’s erection flush against his stomach. He worms his hand between their bodies and pops the button on Foxey’s trousers. He has a bit of a fight with the zip, but that goes down too. He can’t get the trousers all the way down, what with how Foxey’s got his legs spread, but between his efforts to sit up off Lovell’s thighs, and Lovell’s determined shoving, they get them down enough. </p><p>Lovell closes his hand around Foxey’s cock and he’s already leaking, already slick, as he pumps short, helpless thrusts into Lovell’s fist.</p><p>He wonders if the ride did this to him, the fear. Deep down, Lovell knows it did. Deep down, this is what he was expecting. When he looks him in the eye, Lovell can see it flickering, the spark of something sheer as the drop off a cliff caught in a flash of lighting. Foxey is desperate to fall.</p><p>Lovell wants to make him fly instead. </p><p>He slides his thumb across the head of Foxey’s prick, then slips down his shaft. Foxey huffs a breath against Lovell’s lips and Lovell dips his fingers down to play with Foxey’s balls. It’s a tight fit, between Foxey’s pants and his balls, but Lovell is able to roll them in his palm. He wants to get his other hand on him, wants to get him nice and slick. He sits up and Foxey tilts back. His back, or his elbow, or some other part of him hits the horn and it blares out into the dark.</p><p>Lovell gropes blindly for the glovebox, finds the latch and gets it open. He riffles through it, knocking things out and onto the floor as he hunts for the lube. His fingers close on it at last and he wraps his arms around Foxey’s back.</p><p>He thumbs the cap open, squirts more than he needs into his palm and then drops the tube somewhere in the footwell. He rubs his hands together like he’s applying moisturizer. When his hands are coated, he reaches for Foxey’s prick and rests the other one on his arse.</p><p>He slides his hand up and down Foxey’s shaft, any hint of friction there gone. He’s happy enough, jerking Foxey off and feeling the tensing muscle in his arsecheek, but Foxey whines. He wiggles his hips and Lovell’s hand slips toward his crack. He doesn’t thrust into Lovell’s fist, rather, he pushes his arse backward.</p><p>Well, then. Message received. Lovell teases down between his cheeks, his hand slotting between sweat-slick flesh. He feels for the pucker of his hole. Lovell swirls his index finger around it, intending to tease him a bit, but Foxey pushes backward again. He doesn’t ask for much. Seems cruel to deny him when he does. Lovell presses inside him. </p><p>The tight heat of his body swallows Lovell’s finger in a way that suggests Foxey has been preparing himself for this. Not <i>this</i> exactly, but for the thing that they haven’t done yet, the thing that Lovell is saving.</p><p>It’s difficult to remember why, exactly, he’s saving it.</p><p>His own cock is tight and uncomfortable, trapped, as it is, in his trousers. He’d love to get it inside Foxey right now, love to make him come, slamming himself into him, knowing that Foxey would like it as rough as Lovell can give it. Next time, the time after, or maybe one or two after that. Not tonight, not yet. There is no space for it inside the car. If he’s going to fuck him, it’s got to be on the bonnet.</p><p>On the bonnet, his arse up in the air for Lovell to use any way he likes.</p><p>Lovell moans at the thought, and Foxey echoes him. Lovell wonders if Foxey can read his mind, if he can hear in the sounds of Lovell’s breathing the things that he’s whispering, the things that he wants to do to him. </p><p>Maybe, maybe he can. Maybe Lovell is hearing the things Foxey wants done <i>to</i> him right back. Maybe.</p><p>He presses deeper into Foxey, rotates his wrist to tease his finger around the edges of his hole. He can tell, now, for certain, that Foxey has been prepping. He’s tight, but he’s not so tight that Lovell couldn’t get three fingers into him straight off. </p><p>He bites at Foxey’s lip, hooks his finger inside him and finds Foxey’s prostate. Foxey arches his back and wails into Lovell’s mouth.</p><p>Lovell starts jerking him properly. Foxey breaks their kiss, pushes himself up slightly. Lovell doesn’t mind. He likes the view. His hand on Foxey’s thick, red prick, his other hand disappearing around the corner of Foxey’s hip. Foxey is swearing his tits off. “Fuck, Christ, fuck me, fuck,” he slurs over and over with his eyes shut.</p><p><i>You’re mine,</i> Lovell thinks, <i>mine, mine, mine.</i> He slides forward toward the footwell, sits up and tongues Foxey’s nipple through his shirt, the fabric getting wet and spit-slick, as he mouths him with tongue, then lips, then teeth.</p><p>“Oh, please,” Foxey gasps. “Fuck, fuck, <i>please</i>.”</p><p>Lovell hooks his finger, he twists on Foxey’s cock, and then bites Foxey’s nipple, hard.</p><p>Foxey is wordless. His voice breaks as he cries out, as semen pulses through Lovell’s fingers and shoots all over Lovell’s t-shirt. Foxey sways backward and Lovell catches him around the waist. A sloppy mess of lube and semen smears on his side as Lovell tugs him forward so that he falls over him.</p><p>He slides his fingers out of Foxey’s arse and rests his hand on the small of Foxey’s back. He’s wrecked; Lovell can tell he’s wrecked.</p><p>The car his humid from their breath, from the warmth of the night. Foxey is sweating where his skin touches Lovell’s. His face is tucked into Lovell’s neck, his open-mouthed breaths send chills across Lovell’s skin. </p><p>His Foxey, his beautiful, beautiful Foxey, starts apologizing. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, “I—”</p><p>Lovell cuts him off with a kiss. Lovell tries to let it be lazy, tries to ignore his prick when it pulses any time Foxey shifts on top of him. He wants to give Foxey time to come down, but he can’t help rolling his hips when Foxey keeps moving. He’s trying to slide down into the footwell, Lovell realizes after a moment. He’s not going to fit, what with the pedals, the wheel and Lovell’s legs. Lovell likes his optimism, though.</p><p>He grabs Foxey’s shirt to stop him. “Here,” he says.</p><p>He opens his door and Foxey rolls out of the car. Lovell wants to adjust himself so that he’s sitting up, facing him, but Foxey doesn’t give him the chance. His fingers slip Lovell’s button loose and then pull his zip down. Lovell lifts his hips, lets Foxey get his trousers down, is about to reach for the condoms in the glovebox when Foxey’s lips close over the head of his prick.</p><p>Lovell tangles his hands into Foxey’s hair, his fingers fisting into his curls. Foxey’s mouth is hot and wet, and he knows how to suck a cock. He hollows his cheeks out going down, pulls his way all the way back up, then slides down again. Lovell feels the back of his throat, feels Foxey gag on him and then go back for more.</p><p>Lovell tightens his grip in Foxey’s hair, desperate for something to anchor himself with as he feels the whole world being sucked through his cock. Foxey cups his balls in one palm, wraps his other hand around Lovell’s shaft and pumps and sucks and rolls. Lovell bites down on his own bottom lip to try and keep himself from screaming.</p><p>It’s all too much, the feeling is like an electric shock, almost too much for Lovell to describe what it is as pleasurable, but he wants it, wants it, wants Foxey’s mouth on him forever, doing this to him forever, pulling the heat and pain and <i>thunder</i> out of him forever.</p><p>“Oh, fuck off,” Lovell hisses as he comes.</p><p>Foxey sucks up his shaft, pulling off his prick like it’s a fucking ice lolly, then spits a mouthful of Lovell’s spunk onto the ground. It too dark for Lovell to see much color, but he knows how Foxey’s mouth looks. Red and wet, swollen and beautiful. Lovell sits up too quick, gets a bit of a headrush, as he pulls Foxey up so he can claim his lips, so he can taste his come in Foxey’s mouth.</p><p><i>Mine</i>, he stupidly insists. In that moment, Foxey belongs to him.</p><p> </p><p>It isn’t until they’re trying to clean themselves up that Lovell turns on the light in the cab. They’re both disasters. Foxey’s knees are dirty from where he knelt on the ground and an oily stain in the rough shape of Lovell’s hand spreads across the side of his shirt, not the mention the stiff patch of his own drying semen that’s all over the front of him. </p><p>Lovell is clean by comparison. All he’s got is the trail of spunk ground into his t-shirt, that isn’t so much a stain as it is a glossy, flaky, rough patch of fabric gluing itself to the hair on his stomach.</p><p>He’s looking for some napkins when he notices Foxey picking up the folded-up sales forms off the floor. He looks down at them, then over at Lovell. “These go in…?” he asks, tipping them toward the glovebox.</p><p>He hasn’t read them, hasn’t looked at what they say. He’s just holding a wad of papers and asking Lovell where they should go. Lovell nods and Foxey puts them away. Lovell finds the lube under his seat and, finally, some napkins down there too. They’re mostly clean. He hands some to Foxey and spits on the handful he has, wiping at his shirt.</p><p>Now he has a shirt covered in spunk and rolls of damp napkin. </p><p>“Fucking useless,” Lovell says, tossing the napkins down.</p><p>“Sorry,” Foxey says. His chin is tucked close to his chest. He’s got his specs on again and he looks very much like he’d be happy to shrink away to nothing.</p><p>Lovell can’t help that it’s funny. He laughs, “Yeah, pissed me right the fuck off, you coming all over me like you did. Fucking slag.”</p><p>Foxey has to know it’s a joke. Lovell wants him to laugh, or smile, or give him some cheek back, something. All Foxey does is swallow and look away.</p><p>Lovell wants to take it back, what he just said. He doesn’t know how, though. </p><p>In the end, he just starts the car.</p><p>The long drive is quiet. Foxey’s eyes drift shut ten minutes after they leave the airfield and he sleeps with his head flopped against the window. His hair falls messily across his brow. </p><p>He always sleeps after. Lovell always watches him, for as long as he can.</p><p>It’s extremely late by the time they get back to the record shop. The streets are dark and empty, everything in this neighborhood shut up. </p><p>Lovell touches Foxey’s shoulder but he doesn’t stir. He should shake him awake. He doesn’t. Instead, he slides his hand up to his neck, feels the prickle of fresh stubble at his throat, then slips his hand gently into Foxey’s hair. It’s soft, his hair. He allows himself to touch him like that for a moment more as Foxey continues to sleep, but he can’t do it all night. Shouldn’t, really, be doing it at all.</p><p>He puts his hand back on Foxey’s shoulder and gives him a shake.</p><p>Foxey inhales sharply and opens his eyes. He looks around them. “Already?” he asks.</p><p>“You slept the whole way,” Lovell says.</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>Lovell lets the apology lie. No point in saying anything. The silence between them is awkward.</p><p>Everything is awkward between them at the end of the night. Always strange. It doesn’t feel right. </p><p>It’s like waking up after a good dream, that’s all. Lovell just wants it to keep going a little bit longer. He misses it before it’s had a chance to actually end and he’s never quite sure if it will ever come again.</p><p>“So,” Foxey says at last, “are we… um?”</p><p>He wants a next time. Something in Lovell relaxes. “Yeah.”</p><p>“Okay.” He waits for Lovell to give him a when. </p><p> </p><p>When Lovell gets home, the house is dark. He goes in through the back, intending to slip into the bathroom for a shower and then to bed without seeing anyone, but as he enters the kitchen, he sees the blue flash of the telly in the living room and realizes that the front curtains must have been drawn.</p><p>Lovell is a mess, in no shape, really, to be seen by anyone, but he thinks about his dad, passed out in his chair, getting a crick in his neck, and then tucks his shirt into his trousers and zips his jacket. </p><p>He puts his hands into his pockets, like it might have been cold outside, before he goes into the living room.</p><p>The volume on the telly is turned almost all the way down, barely a whisper, which is probably why his dad is already looking at him when Lovell appears at the threshold.</p><p>His dad smiles at him, “Look what the cat dragged in.”</p><p>Lovell smiles too, “Past your bedtime, innit? What are you doing up?”</p><p>His dad nods at the telly, “La Nozze di Figaro.”</p><p>Lovell rolls his eyes, “Is that why you got it turned all the way down? Don’t want mum breaking out in hives?”</p><p>His dad laughs, “Twat.”</p><p>Lovell is about to say goodnight, to go take his shower and get into bed, but his dad stops him before he can go. “Listen, Love, you got a minute?”</p><p>Lovell nods, then takes a seat on the sofa. He looks at the screen, rather than at his dad, and sees the girl dressed as a boy, Cherubino, singing her sweet little song to the Countess.</p><p>“Love,” his dad says after a moment, “listen. It ain’t my business, what you do. I don’t want you thinking that… that I’m looking to meddle or anything.”</p><p>“Okay,” Lovell says when his dad quiets down. He doesn’t like, already, where this conversation is going. </p><p>“Just…” his dad sighs and rubs a hand across the shine of his bald head. “Look, Love. Your mum and I, I hope you don’t think we’re too thick to notice that… you’ve been…” Lovell feels a little stab of panic, “You’ve got a girl, yeah?”</p><p>It’s not what Lovell was expecting. “Dad—”</p><p>“No, I know. I know. And I don’t want to be… I know you’re twenty-five and all, Love, and, well, I remember better than you think, what it’s like to be twenty-five.”</p><p>“I’m twenty-six,” Lovell says, a bit of a whine creeping into his voice. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, not now, not ever. It’s almost worse than what he thought was coming.</p><p>“Alright, twenty-six. Point is… I remember, what that’s like. Being young. But, Love. This girl… I assume it is <i>one</i> girl?”</p><p>Lovell nods, glad that it’s probably too dark to see how red he’s gone.</p><p>“Okay, well, no nice girl wants a bloke who’s just going to run out on her after… er… I mean, you don’t have to come home every night, is all. There’s really no reason—”</p><p>“Christ, Dad. Stop it, yeah?”</p><p>“Well, you know, I just don’t want you… catching hell with your girlfriend—”</p><p>“It’s not like that,” Lovell says quickly.</p><p>His dad quirks an eyebrow at him and gives him one of those obnoxiously sage looks of his. “You sure?”</p><p>Lovell rolls his eyes, actually feels himself completely transform back into a stroppy sixteen-year-old, “Dad, please stop.”</p><p>His dad smiles. “Alright.” He turns back to the telly and Lovell thinks it’s done, but then his dad adds, “You must like her, anyway. <i>Are You Experienced?</i> has got to be getting worn out. Least, the first track.”</p><p><i>Foxey Lady</i>. Shit.</p><p> “You could invite her round for dinner, if you like. Or, you know, tell us her name, at least.”</p><p>Lovell covers his face with his hand, “Piss off, you nosey old git.”</p><p>His dad laughs, a rich, proper laugh. It’s good to hear it; he sounds good, better. </p><p>Times like this, Lovell thinks that it might be alright if he told him the truth. Not about everything, not about what he does on weekends, or Stan, but about—not about Foxey either. But maybe someone else, someday. </p><p>His dad continues to chuckle, then his breath catches in his throat and he’s coughing. It’s a wet, wracking cough that starts deep in his chest and sounds like clingfilm is wrapped over his mouth.</p><p>“Shit,” Lovell says. He gets up immediately and fumbles with his dad’s oxygen tank, “Do you need more? Are you alright?”</p><p>His dad shakes his head and he waves Lovell away. He can’t speak for nearly a full minute, but his breath eventually comes back. He sits back in his chair, utterly exhausted. “Fuck,” he says at last. He wipes his lips with a tissue. Lovell can see it comes away dark.</p><p>“You sure you’re okay?”</p><p>His dad nods. “Yeah, fine. Don’t worry.”</p><p>The airfield feels insanely stupid, now. Insanely reckless. What the fuck was he even thinking?</p><p>His dad sees him, “Don’t worry, Love. Don’t worry. I’m alright.” He smiles, but it’s a tired smile.</p><p>“When’s your next scan?” Lovell asks.</p><p>His dad waves his hand in front of his face like he’s clearing away smoke, “Don’t worry about it. Christ. You’re worse than your mum, you know that?”</p><p>“Yeah, well—”</p><p>“Christ, boy! Leave it!” his dad snaps. Lovell is worried about provoking another coughing fit, so he shuts up. His dad shakes his head, “Listen, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Don’t worry about me so much, alright? It’s not your job to worry about me. I’m your dad, ain’t I?” He reaches out and takes Lovell’s hand. It’s unsettling, how thin it feels, how bony it’s gone. He squeezes Lovell’s fingers. “It’s my job to worry about you, and I’m worried that you’re not looking out for yourself. I need you to look out for yourself. Alright?”</p><p>“I am, Dad. Fucking hell.” Lovell pulls his hand away and brushes his fringe off his forehead. He buries his hand in his hair. “What’s that got to do—”</p><p>“You’ve got to think about your future, Love. You need to… <i>I</i> need to know that you’re looking out. That if this girl is special, you’re not putting her off just because… oh fuck it,” his dad says. He rubs the back of his neck and Lovell watches the tube that leads to his nose bob like a rope of pale neon in the bluish light of the telly. “Just go get to bed. Half three in the morning, innit? Haven’t you got work tomorrow? Christ, you daft boy. You’ll be dead on your feet.”</p><p>Lovell takes the out. They say goodnight and he goes to bed.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>